Hope and Moonlight
by Vathara
Summary: かつて神だった獣たちへ Katsute Kami Datta Kemono-tachi e To the Abandoned Sacred Beasts Being a Beast Hunter is exhausting work. Hank naps where he can. This can get Very Awkward.


A/N: As ever, presented with anime and manga versions, the plotbunnies want both. In this case they like the anime take that most Incarnates still have a trace of human form left they can switch to... but they also love the manga take that Hank's hair goes white right after sunset or on exposure to moonlight. Spoilers through manga vol. 4.

* * *

The first time it happened, Hank would swear it was an accident.

It'd been a long train ride, okay? And Sharl had gotten him up in the morning - the _morning_, eye-bleedingly early, just past dawn. To have breakfast. Pah. Most overrated meal of the day. The one thing he'd never missed about the regular army was reveille.

So it'd been a long ride and he'd... rested his eyes. For a minute. Or five.

And the seats weren't comfortable. Sharl might still be in awe at riding trains for the first time in her life, but his stipend didn't stretch for the good seats. That was the government for you; who cared if their Beast Hunter was rested as long as he got there, and both ends of the train hit town at the same time. Hmph.

So Hank had slumped over a bit, trying to achieve a modicum of comfort. Honestly, he'd slept on more comfortable ammo boxes... oh, there was something. Not quite as hard as a standard ammunition box, more kind of bony...

_Zzzzz_.

Good thing Sharl was sturdier than she looked. Which shouldn't have surprised him so much, given she could handle that monster gun William had left her without breaking her shoulder, or her darned idealistic neck.

(And what had William been thinking, leaving a teenage girl with that much gun? Just what had happened in that peaceful little town before William had left it - and after, that Sharl had had to use it? She'd shot Hank with that first bullet just fine, even if the rest had gone wild when he dodged. And _nobody_ did that their first time shooting another human being.)

At least Liza hadn't seen his little doze. The military intelligence officer would never have let him hear the end of it, the legendary Incarnate captain losing track of his surroundings long enough to nap on a fellow passenger. Even if Sharl was _completely harmless_.

_Tracked me down, checked behind her target, hit me dead center of mass_.

...Well. Mostly harmless.

To an Incarnate, anyway.

Which could be a problem if Sharl was determined to follow him across the country for answers. His old comrades might be going insane, but no one who'd survived the war was stupid. They knew, if he came for them, exactly why he'd come.

_Those who have lost their souls, shall be slain by their own!_

They knew. And if they'd lost their humanity enough for their Captain to hunt them down... they'd look at an innocent girl, and see a human shield. Even if she was William's daughter.

_I need to drive her away_.

Easier said than done. John William Bancroft had been a _very stubborn _man. Strong-willed enough to hold onto his humanity years after he'd lost his human form, and clear-headed enough to lie down for Hank's deadly bullet rather than let Nidhoggr's insatiable hunger harm his daughter. Sharl would be no less stubborn.

But she was a girl. And there was no war now, to trap hapless civilians in its steel-barbed embrace and force them to look upon horrors no one should ever see. A taste of blood and death, of the rage and grief that followed him like a spectral hound, and she'd flee back to safe, sane civilian life.

Right. So he didn't have to worry.

...So long as no one ever caught him napping on Sharl again.

* * *

The second time it happened was _absolutely_ an accident.

That, and Liza's fault. That was Hank's story and he was sticking to it.

It'd been a long night, and a longer day dealing with the aftermath; facing the Behemoth, Southern bandits, murderous railmen, and the body of a comrade far too big to bury. At least, not without a _lot_ more dynamite.

Getting those supplies out of the railroad had been... interesting. And exhausting. Made worse by the recurring ache of, _if someone had just called me a week sooner_-

If Hank had known Artie was headed down this gorge, if he'd only been able to talk to his comrade... a little extra dynamite to give the Leviathan a ramp out, and Artie could have just stepped over the railway. He could have gotten to the ocean alive.

_And then what? I doubt the government would let a Beast play at the beach_.

Probably not. But Artie had been so, so careful not to hurt anyone, wandering the wilderness for years. Once he'd seen the ocean, there might have been a chance to turn him back toward open range again. Artie might be alive.

If Hank hadn't had to deal with Theo first. And Danny. And so many, too many, other Incarnates who were actually killing people. The Leviathan had been harmless, until it wasn't. Murder had taken priority.

_I'm so sorry, Artie. I wish_...

God, what should he wish for? That Artie had been a regular soldier, not an Incarnate? That the Incarnates had never been created? That Elaine had never pulled a young, nameless survivor from the war's rubble years ago?

Tired and grieving, Hank had stumbled back into a railway tent to sleep, mind reeling between the past and the bloody present. Too tired to worry about just whose tent it was. There was a faint scent of Liza in the air, perfume and the tang of Godkiller bullets; it had to be the tent she'd requisitioned for him. Pale canvas, hastily waterproofed, probably Army surplus - he could almost imagine the tent smelled like his squad.

Ha, and just like old times, the powers that be were too stingy to provide their cannon fodder a tent apiece. There was already someone huddled under rough wool blankets on another cot, head buried under the thin pillow to shut out the world.

Swaying a little on his feet, Hank studied that bundled pile of wool. Breathed in-

_Old wool. Terror. Gunpowder. Grief, tea, exhaustion_.

He hadn't talked much with Elaine about this aspect of the Werewolf. That - like the uncanny strength and speed that'd saved his life so many times - wolf-sharp senses just didn't go away. They were less by day. Muted. Closer to human. But not gone.

_One of my squad is hurting_.

No. Damn it, no. He was going to do one thing right today. And this... this he could fix. At least for tonight.

Hank moved quietly, but not _too_ quietly. The last thing he needed was for the poor guy to think there was an oncoming ambush. Carefully, he positioned the second cot just next to the woolen lump, dropped down, and lashed matching cot legs together with a bit of appropriated rope, so the whole mess was stable enough to stand up to night-terror-thrashing. Folded his white coat, gun safely tucked in the middle, and slipped under a sheet on his side of the doubled cot. Back facing the middle, so his squadmate could thump up against hard, familiar muscle, and breathed out slow and easy.

Hopefully that'd be enough to settle a frightened soldier. Hank was just... done.

"It's all right," he managed, already muzzy with sleep. "We're all scared."

There was an intake of breath. But his squadmate must have been just as exhausted. They didn't move.

_Okay_.

It was nice, to drift off to warmth, familiar scents, and the sure knowledge there was an allied gun guarding his back. He hadn't been safe with other Incarnates for a long time.

A very long time, Hank finally realized, somewhere in the wee hours of the morning. His squad had scattered to the four winds, thanks to Cain; anyone still alive was either hanging onto their sanity and laying low, or... not. None of them would come anywhere near the Beast Hunter.

So why did the other cot smell like his squad?

Hank took a deeper breath, and tried not to groan. _Sharl. You young, idealistic_-

The curse died mid-thought. This wasn't her fault. Liza's scent was all over both cots; Sharl had probably meant to double up in the tent with the intelligence agent for tonight. He shouldn't have been in here at all.

_But it smelled safe_...

Oh. Of course it did. It smelled like Sharl.

Before he'd ever met her Hank had known Sharl's scent; from whiffs of William's shirts, sweet traces tangled in mended seams and buttonholes. She'd always been there, a gently haunting ghost; the mascot-child of the whole squad. No wonder Artie had acknowledged her, even paused at her slender form on the steel bridge, when the Behemoth had ignored everything else human.

_Did he know her scent, too? _

...Okay. One more subtle trap to watch out for, if Hank wanted to keep that hopeful light in Sharl's blue eyes. At least Liza didn't know about this one, she'd tease the younger girl to death-

A cold chill ran down Hank's spine. If he'd stolen Liza's cot, where was Liza?

_Please let her be chasing some rich officer! _

Even if he was that lucky, Liza'd be back soon. The sultry blonde only went so far without something more solid than a gallant night's promises. Time to put all his trained sneakiness to good use, and tip-toe his way out of here.

And no, he did _not_ run like a scared chicken. It was more... bolting like a startled cat.

Because if Liza caught him, she'd be the cat; the one that ate the canary, and Sharl would die of spontaneous blushing.

(And so would he.

Not that Hank was ever, _ever_ going to admit it.)

* * *

The third time it happened-

The third time, curled on a rough prisoner's cot in Muzzle Peak's brig, Hank didn't even bother with excuses. It'd been too long since he'd seen a friendly face, Sharl's or Liza's; longer still since he'd been able to sleep without Cain's mad laugh ringing through his nightmares. The horror unleashed in Whitechurch, when Cain had shot Sharl, when he'd thought the last good thing his squad had cared for was dead-

Night after night, Hank prayed his rampage had only killed other Incarnates. But he'd been too long a soldier, and painfully wise in the wreckage left by war long before that. Even if he hadn't killed innocents himself, the raging battle had taken out half the city. Their blood was on his hands.

He'd run from that blood, and Sharl's death. Run back to the only reason he had to keep breathing. To kill his own comrades; every shift bringing the Beast closer, every death shattering more of his soul.

Only Sharl wasn't dead. She'd found him, facing down Garmr in full fanged fury to keep him alive. She'd _shot_ Roy. And hit him. More than once.

Whatever Sharl had endured since Whitechurch, it must have been bad. To make that promise to him, that she'd kill him if the Beast took over - God, he couldn't hold her to it, not William's daughter-

But she was _here_, in the spine of the mountains, traveling with Major Claude Withers' squad of Incarnate-killing soldiers. Soldiers she'd joined specifically to find him. How much deeper into this mess could she get?

Sharl sat beside him on the cot, bare inches away, hugging herself against the mountain chill. That, and probably missing the weight of her gun. Major Withers hadn't let her into Hank's cell with it. As if one firearm would make a difference, if the Werewolf wanted out.

"I wanted to tell you about Trice," Sharl said softly. "Before Major Withers does. About Trice, and... my father."

Coat draped about him, Hank started. Her father? It'd hurt, down there in the snowy gorge, hearing about William's second death. He should have checked, damn it; he knew the replica Godkillers weren't as effective as the originals. But William was dead, why-?

Yet it was the other name that cut to the bone. _Trice_. Beatrice. Siren. "How did you know her name?"

Sharl swallowed hard, and gave him a brave smile. "I asked her."

_No_.

It hurt, listening to the last days of another comrade's life. Trice had wanted so much for the war to be over, so she could sing and bring joy again.

But even as it cut like knives, it cut cleanly. Sharl's story was a _kindness_. Telling him the facts, before Cain's brother could throw the blood of Trice's death in his face.

...And Claude would, Hank was sure of it. Whatever love or jealousy had festered between the brothers before, driving Cain to abandon his family name and become an Incarnate, Claude's face now had the grim steel of a man driven by pure, boiling hate.

_I know that face. From the mirror. You may hate Incarnates, Claude, but when it comes to Cain - we have a lot more in common than you'd like_.

The furious major could wait until the morning. Sharl was here now, biting her lip to hold back tears. Poor kid. "I'm glad you were with her," Hank said honestly. "That she wasn't alone."

"I tried to help her." Sharl's voice almost broke, blue eyes studying the rough stone floor as if it held the answers to everything. "But I couldn't. And you couldn't be there, so - I tried to do what you would have. And you're always kind."

Hank blinked at that one. "Kind," he said flatly. _I murder my own because their power drives them insane, and you say that?_

Sharl lifted her head, proper as a matron holding court over tea. "I never said you were _nice_."

Oh, he couldn't let that one pass. Widening his eyes, Hank gave her his best blink of disbelief. "I'm not nice?"

Sharl's hands flew over her mouth. "I mean, you can be nice! And I think you could be nicer if you were around people more, and you _should_ be. Running around up here in the mountains getting hurt, out of bullets - don't look at me like that, I know you are, I talked to Liza. She wants to bury you in ammunition, she's that angry. And if she does that when you're out in the snow you could catch your death-!"

Aha. There was the awkward, idealistic girl he knew. Despite himself, Hank smiled.

Sharl sputtered, cheeks red as she looked away. "...You had us so worried."

Sharl, worried about him? Hank could believe that, even if he didn't deserve it. Liza, though - Liza probably wouldn't worry if a mountain fell on him.

Granted, he was an Incarnate. If a mountain did fall on him, it might just slow him down.

Which crystallized a nagging worry about what Sharl hadn't said. "Why would the major want to talk about your father?"

Sharl's fingers plucked at her dark skirt, as if only iron self-discipline kept them from finding a loose thread to pull. "It wasn't your fault."

Nothing after that phrase was ever good. "What wasn't?"

"It - Fath-" Sharl gulped. "Nidhoggr's body. It... wasn't quite dead."

She'd already told him that, surrounded by snow and stone, tea a familiar comfort on the fire. That she felt she had to say it again - there had to be something more. Something worse. _Oh shit_.

"That's how I met Major Withers," Sharl rushed on. "His unit came to - well. They tried. But cannons weren't enough, and..."

Hank's blood ran cold. "And?"

Blue eyes looked away, then back at him, determined. "Liza gave me the bullets."

For a moment Hank couldn't think. Liza had-? Insane or not, that had been Sharl's _father_.

_That's Intelligence for you. Get the job done. No matter what it takes_.

"He gave you his oath, just like the others." Sharl's voice barely quavered. "He couldn't keep it. But I knew my father. I know he _wanted_ to." She swallowed. "So I kept it for him."

_Damn, William. You raised a strong girl_. "I'm sorry."

Sharl's shoulders shifted, too heartsore to be a shrug. "It wasn't your fault."

He wasn't going to argue with her about that. Not now. Later, when she'd had more time to grieve. Hank forced lightness into his tone instead. "Guess I shouldn't go back to Rivulet Wood, then. Might get ugly."

"Oh. No, you'd be fine."

_Huh?_

"The town doesn't blame you for Nidhoggr," Sharl said steadily. "They blame me."

_Whaaaat? _

(Later, Hank tracked down Liza for a report of just what happened in Rivulet Wood. The details made him want to break some stupidly superstitious skulls - or at least whatever passed for the local bar. "A bloodsoaked Angel of Death"? Sharl? And calling her the daughter of a murderer - it made his teeth grind. Any deaths William's revived body had caused were _Hank's_ fault, not Sharl's. Not even William's. Hank had known Incarnates could regenerate. He should have made sure.

One of the Lookout's walls had a hole in it, after. And if a few of Withers' men turned pale when Hank walked by - well, good. Maybe they'd realize how dangerous even a human-form Incarnate could be. When it came to Cain, that might save their lives.)

"So... I'm trying to work on my aim," Sharl went on now. "Since most Incarnates aren't as big as- they aren't as big." She took a breath. "Would you help me?"

Hank was honestly torn; _you shouldn't be fighting at all!_ warring with, _damn right I will, you got Roy but we'd better make sure that wasn't luck_...

Obviously his heart couldn't be trusted in this mess. Better to stick to his head. "You should practice," Hank acknowledged. "But no matter how good your aim is, in a fight with adrenaline going - it's hard for even a trained soldier to put more than two out of six shots on a target." He had to shake his head. "If you run through a whole cylinder and your enemy doesn't go down-"

"That's why I brought speedloaders!" Sharl blinked at him, face pink again. "Can you show me how to use them? Liza keeps saying her arms are too frail."

Hank raised an eyebrow at that one. Not enough muscle, maybe. There was nothing _frail_ about Liza. "We'll have to practice with regular bullets. Godkillers are expensive."

Sharl nodded quickly, face alight. Like he'd given her a present, instead of a promise of blood and pain.

And that brought a flash of Arachne, Sharl in pale blue silk, and one almost-deadly bullet.

_Cain_.

The bastard had shot Sharl on purpose. _Knowing_ her seeming death would drive Hank's Beast over the edge.

_How did he know? I didn't know! How did he? _

He'd think about _why_ the Werewolf had gone mad later. Much, much later. For now... "Sharl. Cain hurt you to get to me once. Whatever he's after-"

"He'll try it again." Sharl shivered, but didn't pull away. "I know. That's why I'm not leaving."

God save him from stubborn women. "That makes _no sense_."

"Hank." Sharl almost bit her lip. "I'm not good enough to fight him. What if he comes after me and you're not there?"

Damn. The girl had a point.

"And I've been thinking." One booted toe kicked at the stone-flagged floor. "About you, and the Werewolf, and why you - you never went mad until Whitechurch."

"Doesn't matter," Hank said harshly, edging away. He shouldn't touch her. No matter how much he wanted to. The last remnant of his squad. The one good thing in his whole damn _life_. "It's happening now. Sooner or later, if I use the transformation too much..."

_You'll have to keep your promise_.

"You're not listening!" Sharl's small fists clenched, cheeks alight with fury. "Hank, while you were with your squad, while you were working with Liza - you were _fine_."

As if that made any difference. "All Incarnates eventually go mad-"

"_Wolves go crazy alone!" _

Hank found himself with his jaw hanging open, totally caught off-guard. _What?_

Sharl's laced bosom was heaving, drawing in angry breaths. "People talk about lone wolves like it's something to be proud of, but they're _wrong_. Wolves aren't supposed to be alone. And neither are people. It drives them crazy. It drives _anyone_ crazy."

"I- you- what?" Hank managed.

"You need people," Sharl insisted. "You need someone you can trust. If you have that - you'll get better. You _will_."

Hank winced. "Sharl. There's no cure-"

Blue blazed at him. "There's no cure for malaria, either! That doesn't mean you stop trying. You give people quinine when they need it, and - and you _hope_." Her shoulders fell. "Please, Hank. Please try."

What else could he say to that? "I'll try," Hank said quietly. "If you'll _be careful_."

"Fine." Standing up, Sharl took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders. "So just keep your clothes on and take your medicine."

"...Eh?"

Sharl gave the cot a testing shove. Frowned, and cast about the cell for anything else that could be moved. There wasn't much, besides a trio of leftover crates someone had obviously meant as a substitute for table and chairs. Sloppy; Hank could think of a half-dozen ways to make those into improvised weapons, not least by yanking a metal staple out where it wouldn't show until he'd already slit a guard's throat.

Maybe Sharl had a point. If that was the first thing that came to mind, he'd spent too much time with bloody death.

Hopefully the girl had missed his momentary thoughts on deadly options. Though the look on her face as she shoved rough wood over to the cot was determined enough to make Hank wonder if he'd need those after all. He jumped to his feet just before a splintery corner would have banged his knees. "What are you doing?"

"Claude wants to kill you, and you almost let him," Sharl said fiercely. "I'm not leaving you alone in here!" She reddened again. "I know, you'd rather have Liza here. But I think she's - busy. Talking to Sergeant Coriani, the major's aide-de-camp. He knows they need all the information on Incarnates they can get-"

"Wait," Hank cut her off. Because honestly, what did Liza have to do with this? He'd been dodging the intelligence officer's hints of sharing a bed for years...

Oh. Oh no. "Wait, you mean you're staying in here?" Oh god. One thing to sleep on Sharl by accident. John William Bancroft was going to _rise from the grave_ and bite his captain's head off for leading his daughter astray.

Then again, given Nidhoggr had apparently already risen once, not funny. "Sharl." Hank cleared his throat. "You can't stay here."

Blue eyes were wide, and maybe just a little pert. "I don't have a key to the cell."

Of course not. "You can yell for the guard."

Crates stacked next to the cot as best they could be to make a little more room, Sharl folded her hands. "I won't."

Time to fight dirty. "_I'll_ yell for the guard."

Sharl gave him a look so deadpan, Hank expected the glint of William's glasses. Right. Incarnate-hating soldiers probably didn't want to come into the brig corridor at all. If he yelled, they'd come in shooting. And possibly hit Sharl. Not acceptable.

Well if reason didn't work, he'd try propriety. Anyone who knew her teas the way Sharl did knew this was a bad idea. "Sharl. You're an unmarried young girl, your reputation-"

Sharl's lips twitched; a wry, sad smile. "I've been traveling with a group of soldiers for weeks."

Ah. Right. Damn. A young girl wandering New Patria alone to find her father's killer might be a scandal and a hissing, but in the wake of the war there were just too many orphans for all but the uppermost crust of society to care. A girl traveling with a troop of soldiers? _Camp follower_ would be the least of the names hurled-

Sharl's face brightened, determined. "But they're not as angry as you think! They taught me to play cards."

Cards? Someone had taught proper, innocent Sharl to-? Hank breathed out, deliberately slow and even. He was going to find the poor, deluded, daredevil soldier who'd been _so stupid_. And then someone was going to be on punishment detail for a _month_.

Er. Except he wasn't in the squad's chain of command. No sane man would ever put him in charge of normal troops again.

_Details_. "Sharl, why?"

"Because you're a good man. And you're my friend." Sharl rubbed at her arms through dark sleeves, glancing away. "And it's cold in here!"

She wasn't wrong. "All right," Hank sighed, yielding to that lace-edged stubbornness. "Let's see if we can make this work."

His coat ended up on top of both of them, one more thick layer against the chill of mountain stone. Sharl was a small, stiff knot of bone and muscle against his shoulder, scent drenched in worry and nerves.

_This is such a bad idea_.

A slower breath, and she finally went limp in sleep, anxiety washed away by a whiff of grief and salt.

_Crying in her sleep_. Hank grimaced, trying his best to lie alongside her without touching more than thick cloth. _Well, she's earned it_.

He hurt for her already. Sharl would be doing a lot more crying, when this didn't work...

His sigh drew in the spice of gunpowder, and rosewater-scented hair.

_Zzzz..._

Next he knew it was too damn early in the morning again; guards banging on the door, Sharl popping out bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, apparently oblivious to any of the muttered comments Hank's sharper ears caught. He'd have to have _words_ with those men. Assuming Claude didn't just haul him in front of a firing squad before noon.

Which would be annoying, damn it. He didn't want to die.

Midway through the leathery eggs and dubious pork that passed for breakfast, Hank stopped chewing.

_I don't want to die. I promised Sharl I'd fight_.

And he could still smell her hair, where his nose had ended up nestled against the base of her braid; sweet and warm as a summer benediction. It was... restful.

_It can't be that simple_.

No. No matter what Sharl thought. The Werewolf was no ordinary wolf, after all.

But it looked like he had at least one more day of sanity. And if he could stretch that out one more, and one more - fight as a human as much as he could, avoid the shift-

_I'll live, Sharl. As long as I can_.

* * *

Sharl said nothing. Her father had told her once, hope is a butterfly. Cup it in your hands to protect it, but too tight a grip will kill.

So she wouldn't say it. Not now. Not until she could be sure.

But for a few minutes after sunset, even with the moon high...

Hank's hair was black.

* * *

A/N: Given this is a Fantasy Counterpart to the Civil War, no, at this time there's probably no cure for malaria. But doses of quinine could keep the worst of it in check.


End file.
